Josephine was on her feet and at his side instantly, crying out:
“Oh, does it hurt you so dreadful much? Can’t I do something for it? I can bathe feet beautiful. Bridget sprained her ankle and mamma let me bathe it with arnica. Big Bridget said that was what cured it so quick. Have you got any arnica? May I bathe it?”
“Would you really handle a red, unpleasant, swollen old foot and not dislike it?”
“I guess I shouldn’t like it much. I didn’t like big Bridget’s. I felt queer little feelings all up my arm when I touched it. She said it hurt me worse than it did her. But I’d do it. I’d love to do it even if I didn’t like it,” she answered bravely.
“Peter, fetch the arnica. Then get a basin of hot water,” he ordered.
The pain was returning with redoubled force, and Mr. Smith shut his lips grimly. He looked at Josephine’s plump little hands, and felt that their touch might be very soothing; as, indeed, it proved. For when the servant brought the things desired, the little girl sat down upon the hassock beside the great chair and ministered to him, as she had done to big Bridget. The applications were always helpful, but the tender strokes of her small fingers were infinitely more grateful than the similar ministrations of the faithful, yet hard-handed, Peter.
“Now I’ll put it to bed, as if it were Rudanthy. Poor Rudanthy! How bad she must feel without any face. That’s worse than having a sore foot, isn’t it?” as she heaped the coverings over the gouty toes.
“Far worse. Only waxen faces are not subject to pain.”
“I s’pose not. Now, Uncle Joe, would you like me to sing to you?”
“Can you sing?”